


Harry Potter and the Secrets in the Shadows

by Mr_3CP



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, Dark Harry, Dark Lord Harry Potter, Dark Magic Rituals (Harry Potter), Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Gen, Global warfare, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Manipulation, Not Epilogue Compliant, One Shot, POV Hermione Granger, Possessive Harry, Post-Canon, The Deathly Hallows, Unobservant Hermione, War, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:02:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29315283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mr_3CP/pseuds/Mr_3CP
Summary: A much changed Harry Potter departs from Britain following the defeat of Voldemort. Four years later he returns, and nothing is as it once was. As secrets spread and friends change all around her, will Hermione discover the threat to the Wizarding World before its too late, or will all be consumed, devoured by a rising darkness?
Relationships: Daphne Greengrass/Harry Potter, Hannah Abbott/Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Rolf Scamander
Comments: 7
Kudos: 33





	Harry Potter and the Secrets in the Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction and nothing more. anything you recognise belongs to JKR.
> 
> I would like to thank Regress and Athena Hope for looking over this, particularly Athena.
> 
> This is my first work of this nature, so I would greatly appreciate people's thoughts on it.

Honestly, Hermione blamed herself. After all, wasn’t she the ‘smartest witch of their age’? The girl who practically dragged Harry and Ron’s asses out of the fire a thousand times over? The girl who had more than likely read every damn book in the Hogwarts Library? And yet, in this regard, she had failed. She had failed so wholly, so utterly, that she just couldn’t bring herself to even think on it. But no, she  _ had to.  _ Someone had to remember, and if she didn’t she highly doubted anyone else cared to. So, as tears slid silently down her cheeks, that was what she did. She  _ remembered.  _

* * *

**May, 1998**

Harry was standing by the shore of the lake again. He seemed to be doing that more and more in the last few days, gazing into the lake’s ink black depths as though it contained some secret he was desperate to uncover. Hermione was worried about him. She and Ron had noticed — hell anyone who looked at him noticed — that he didn’t look right. The bags under his eyes were far, far too pronounced, his skin was even paler than normal, and his eyes just looked so  _ empty.  _

For weeks she watched, helpless, as her every attempt to reach Harry fell flat. When he wasn’t out in public, he was in Grimmauld Place, simply moping — or whatever it was you called what he was doing — while the world spun on without him. Time and again she would visit. With Ron, alone, with Ginny, with Luna, with Neville, even McGonagall visited more than once, but it was to little avail. Harry was just… just broken, and for the first time in her life Hermione could think of no solution.

In the end, it was Luna who came up with the idea. It shouldn’t have surprised Hermione really. She always liked to contrast herself with the younger girl. She was all logic while the other girl defied any and all logical convention with a blissful smile on her face. When she floated the idea to the group Hermione had almost dismissed it out of hand, but the longer she thought on it, the more sense it made. At the very least it was worth a try, and that was how the core members of the DA found themselves in the Drawing room; Harry sat across from them with an apathetic expression.

“We think this could really do you some good Harry.” As agreed, Ginny had led the pitch, her hand placed comfortingly on Harry’s knee. That at least got a smile, small though it was. It seemed like Ginny was the only one who could still make Harry smile these days. He spoke up, and it might’ve just been her imagination reaching for straws, but Hermione swore she could hear at least a fragment of hope in his voice.

“You honestly think it would help?” 

Hermione nodded emphatically with her kindest smile, while Ron squeezed her shoulder, eyes focused on his best friend.

“We really do mate. When you think about it, Britain’s always gonna hold bad memories, as well as the good ones. We aren’t saying you need to go for long, but just seeing the rest of the world, making these new memories, we just think it’d do you a world of good.”

The rest of the group all voiced their encouragement, and slowly, Harry nodded. For the first time in almost a year, since Bill and Fleur’s ill-fated wedding, wedding, Hermione thought she saw real hope in his eyes. 

“Ok. Ok. I’ll go for a few months. Clear my head, maybe explore. Any recommendations?” Thrilled at the perceived progress, they all leapt in, and for a little while things felt normal. 

Two days later, Harry got an international portkey to Cyprus via France, his meagre possessions in a pack Hermione had taken joy in enchanting for him, promises to see them all in 6 months falling easily from his lips.

He was gone four years.

* * *

**July, 2002**

Hermione had been practically vibrating with excitement as she clung to Ron, awaiting the next portkey to come through. Four years of absence, the only contact being letters every month or so. Not that she begrudged Harry his time, of course. On the contrary, she was thrilled! Each letter painted a picture of recovery, as more and more of his wit bled back into the messages, and she could feel her friend returning to her. 

Given her fixation with his recovery, she could be perhaps forgiven for missing how often the Ministry had stories of murders or dark magic performed in places eerily close to wherever Harry would be sending a letter from. Alas, she never put it together. But then, she’d always had a blind spot where Harry was concerned.

And there he was! The air whirled, and Harry landed gracefully, straightening with an elegance far removed from the sprawling form of his younger self when interacting with Portkeys. As one, Ron and Hermione rushed forwards, and the trio was reunited in a tight hug as Harry’s warm chuckle sounded around them.

“Yeah, I missed you guys too.” Hermione pulled back with a glare that was significantly weakened by the beaming smile she couldn’t quite repress, swatting his arm in exasperation.

“Well whose fault was that you buffoon?” Harry chuckled again, and Hermione was struck by how different he looked. He was distinctly taller, and for the first time since she’d met him, Harry Potter had muscles and a tan. He was still pale, and far from bulky, but no longer did he show his years of neglect, and he wouldn’t be mistaken for a vampire as he could’ve been before he left. His emerald eyes glittered with a mirth she’d seldom seen there before, and his entire bearing was that of a man freed from worries or cares.

“Give him a break ‘Mione, you’ll scare him off again!” Ron chortled as he pulled his best friend back into a hug, one Harry reciprocated gladly. In the interests of catching up, the two had put aside the rest of the day, and after a quick apparition they were back in Grimmauld Place, looking distinctly more sanitary than it had when he left. When Harry turned a quirked eyebrow upon her, Hermione flushed, looking at her shoes.

“W-well it seemed a shame to leave it as it was, and Kreacher was desperate for something to do, and I didn’t think you would mind and—”

“‘Mione.” She glanced up, meeting Harry’s warm and highly amused grin. “I love it. Calm down.” 

With any remaining ice broken, the trio went to sit, receiving afternoon tea from an ecstatic Kreacher, while Harry filled them in on all his explorations. Ron was gripping his armrests one moment and howling with laughter the next as Harry detailed memories that were both amusing and tense in equal measure, while Hermione was all but entranced by descriptions of temples and cultures teeming with magics she’d never heard of. 

If Harry didn’t always elaborate on some of the magics she didn’t notice, far too easily distracted by the snippets he did throw her way. All seemed perfectly well, until Harry moved on to the topic they’d been avoiding.

“So,” Harry said, placing his teacup down as Ron recovered from his last fit of laughter. “I notice that Ginny wasn’t with you.” 

Ron sobered immediately, leaning forward with a cautious look. Seemingly better or no, this was still a much affected Harry, and they needed to be tactful about this.

“Mate… listen. Ginny, well, I guess what I mean to say is…” Ron floundered, causing Hermione to roll her eyes exasperatedly.

“Ginny went back to Hogwarts after you left, and well she started dating a Ravenclaw in her year named Davian Chase. They’ve been together three years now, they’re pretty serious.” Hermione paused, looking straight into Harry’s eyes in an attempt to gage his reaction. Subconsciously, she found her hand clasping Ron’s as they both put on the most supportive expressions they could.

Their fears were proven to be entirely unfounded, however, as Harry merely smiled. “Oh thank Merlin! The way you two were acting I almost thought she’d died!” Hermione blinked, very confused, while Ron leant forwards, a hopeful smile appearing. Hermione knew he’d been truly dreading having to come in between the fallout of this, so Harry’s response almost seemed too good to be true.

“You- you don’t mind? You’re ok with this?” Harry chuckled, running a hand through his still messy hair that he’d apparently decided to grow out. 

“Of course I am, mate. Would I have liked to be with Ginny? Sure, but I’m not gonna begrudge her happiness. She’s your sister, and more importantly she’s a wonderful person who was my friend long before she was my girlfriend. If we’re just friends, then that’s perfectly fine, so long as she’s happy.” 

A true beam broke out on Ron’s face, and Hermione shared a relieved smile with him before turning back to Harry, very impressed by the maturity of his answer. He really had grown up, hadn’t he? Of course, in sharing their lovers' looks, Hermione and Ron missed the look that flashed across their friends' face. It lasted the barest fraction of a second, but for that brief speck of time, Harry’s face was twisted by total, unrelenting fury. Nevertheless, it was missed completely, and the friends fell back into an easy routine of laughter and good conversation that lasted well into the night. 

When they finally left, Hermione and Ron were filled to bursting with happiness at the thought that their friend was restored to them, whole and hearty once more. That was a good night. Hermione missed nights like that more than she could ever put into words.

* * *

**June 2005**

Hermione couldn’t have kept the smile of her face if she tried as she mingled with her wedding guests, clad in a white dress enchanted to look as though it was almost floating around her. Across the expanse she could see Ron awkwardly hugging his sobbing  mother, while Ginny stood to the side, patting him on the shoulder. Meanwhile, Harry was conversing easily with Headmistress McGonagall, the woman laughing and smiling more easily than Hermione could honestly say she’d ever seen.

Harry too looked happy. In the two years since his return, he had thrown himself back into his life with a gusto that honestly amazed Hermione. Gone was the shy boy who only really spoke when he had to, and gone too was the moody teen who all but loathed public speaking. The Harry Potter that had returned to Britain was a key public figure, one who could be seen constantly, arguing for change, for progress. The people adored him of course, and with the Black seat on the Wizengamot he held magnificent sway, sway that only seemed to be growing. 

Even those who had once been Harry’s staunchest detractors knew better than to oppose him publicly. Rita had tried for a while, apparently still vengeful over their prior interactions, but seemingly overnight she changed her tune completely, now singing the man’s praises better than a well trained canary. Of course, while Harry clearly enjoyed politics, it was equally clear to any who cared to look where his heart was.

Harry would tell any who asked that Hogwarts was his home, and when the DADA Professor spot opened up last year, he’d quite literally thrown himself at the chance to make the statement official. By all accounts the children adored him, and his fellow staff had nothing but good things to say about him. However…

Speaking of his fellow staff, Hermione felt her eyes drift to the one part of Harry’s new life she wasn’t sure she liked. Daphne Greengrass. She had started teaching the same year as Harry, beginning a transition period for Professor Slughorn to move into retirement. By all accounts the two — whom Hermione knew full well had never spoken while at Hogwarts — had hit it off immediately, becoming fast friends and then lovers in a matter of months.

Hermione was happy for Harry, really she was! If anyone deserved joy in his life it was him, but did it have to be with — well with  _ her? _ Oh sure Greengrass was never anything other than polite, and she was definitely helping Harry in the political sphere, but every time Hermione spoke with her she knew full well that the blonde ex-Slytherin was judging her, weighing her up and finding her wanting. Daphne practically radiated superiority complex, and it set Hermione’s teeth on edge. Since they’d gotten together Harry had been around less and less, and Hermione knew exactly who to blame for that.

It was for that reason that she didn’t go to join Harry, instead allowing herself to join a conversation with Neville and Hannah, another couple that looked to be ready to tie the knot any day now. Surrounded by her friends, Hermione let her few concerns vanish as the magic of her oh so happy day filled her. In her euphoria, she never noticed the assessing green eyes that continuously swept over the guests, thoughts whirling coldly behind them. Nor did she notice when they fixated on her parents. 

Merlin did she hate herself for that.

* * *

**April, 2006**

Hermione was very, very tired. Despite the kindly assurances of her mother, Hermione was quite certain that childbirth was hell itself. And she’d been tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange for Merlin’s sake! That said, the moment her baby — her little Rose — had looked up at her with her beautiful blue eyes, Hermione couldn’t disagree with her mother. It was all absolutely worth it. Ron had been all but beside himself, running around St Mungo's like a loon, sobbing and laughing in equal measure as his daughter stared at him with the sort of bemusement only a baby can pull off.

Harry was made godfather, naturally. Distance or no he was their best and oldest friend, and as a teacher they figured no one could take better care of little Rosie. He’d accepted with an almost manic eagerness, which Hermione dismissed as a desire to be what Sirius should’ve been for him — much like he was for Teddy. Honestly, it was good. If that brought him back, bridged that gap that seemed to be growing bit by bit, then she couldn’t be happier.

* * *

**December, 2012**

The mood in the Weasley house was more somber than Hermione remembered it being since before the war. She had been awoken at 2 in the morning by an urgent floo call, Percy’s face filling her fire. Just from the redhead’s expression she’d known something was terribly, terribly wrong, but she’d never dared to imagine what she was told.

At 12 o’clock that night, the brutalised corpses of Ginny Weasley and Davian Chase had been found in their home. The couple had been apparently working on a project Davian had brought home from his work at the Ministry, only for it to go wrong. Somehow destroying a vast chunk of the house, all but obliterating Ginny, and horrifically injuring Davian. The man had lived barely long enough to get to St Mungo’s, but mere minutes after arrival he was dead, the healers unable to do anything.

Hermione had seen the photos, and almost thrown up all over her kitchen table. The young man — whom Hermione had grown to genuinely respect and like — was unrecognisable. His entire right side of his body resembled a bloody paste more than it did a human, and deep lacerations covered the rest of him as well. How he’d survived as long as he did was frankly beyond her.

Of course, all of her analytical thought was rather unhelpful right now. The entire Weasley clan was gathered in the Burrow; besides the children, whom Harry had graciously offered to take care of at the newly refurbished Potter Manor — an offer no one was in the right state of mind to refuse. 

The Boy-Who-Lived’s conspicuous absence was essentially unnoticed, as the remaining children and their spouses focused on comforting a beyond distraught Molly. What worried Hermione though was Arthur. The eccentric man just looked lost, his eyes completely dead. It reminded her horribly of Harry back then, after the war, but she knew with a sickening certainty that going away wasn’t going to fix this. The Weasley parents were broken, and they never really came back. 

  
  


The next half decade passed gradually, filled with an exceptionally mixed series of events. On the one hand — while the death of Ginny was a horror the likes of which they could never truly come to terms with — the Weasley clan and the majority of their friends and family were closer than ever. Hermione watched with nothing but joy as her daughter grew up to be as bright as she ever was, with a healthy dose of her father’s humour. 

Hermione’s career also saw successes, as she continued to advance in the ministry, everybody watching as she paved the way for real change. Though, no one could argue that it was a time of true peace. As the years progressed, unrest began to flicker amongst the people of Wizarding Britain. More and more Hogwarts graduates seemed to take to the streets, speaking loudly and fervently against the “corrupt Ministry.” This disruption was interspersed with more and more “accidents.” 

Notable figures, political or otherwise, seemed to somehow find themselves in life threatening situations. A malfunctioning portkey here, a potions mishap there. Never regular enough to raise true alarm, but Hermione knew she wasn’t alone in her fears that these were very much intentional events. Much as she wished she could believe otherwise, Hermione couldn’t ignore what she was seeing. 

Someone, somewhere, was working from the shadows, working their designs upon the Wizarding World, though to what end she had no idea. After all, part of the reason people were hesitant to suggest foul play was the apparent randomness of the deaths. Horace Slughorn could admittedly be argued as someone with influence, but the death of Anthony Goldstein, a skilled but hardly exceptional lawyer? A Pureblood one to boot? 

It made little to no sense, and yet Hermione still could do nothing to quell the sense of dread that only left her when she was with her children. The one thing she could say at the very least hadn’t worsened was their relationship with Harry. 

While the closeness of their youth had never truly returned, nor did she think it ever would; Harry was still a loving, if occasionally distant, uncle to Rose and Hugo — not to mention the other Weasley Scions. He showered them with gifts, and Hermione knew full well that he was always willing to lend an ear. She was grateful for that. She was even more grateful for his political influence. While their views seemed to have diverged in places, there was no denying that Harry was the figure that was holding the malcontents of society at bay.

After all, by this point all of the recent Hogwarts graduates had been taught by him for a minimum of five years, and a large number the full seven. Add to that the fact that he had amassed a powerful Wizengamot bloc, spearheaded by him with Susan Bones, Ernie MacMillan and Theo Nott — of all people — being his main supporters.

Harry had also organised a public Defense force, one of his few ideas Hermione actively opposed; an organisation that was, on paper, a peaceful organisation meant to promote order and make sure that the Public’s voice was heard. That said, the fact it was headed by Blaise Zabini concerned Hermione, and she couldn’t help but think that Harry had been somewhat manipulated by his wife. 

Daphne Potter was a powerful figure on her own merits, but throwing her weight behind Harry allowed her to make all sorts of dangerous moves, moves that often went directly against Hermione’s own desires, but for some reason Harry simply let his wife’s decisions slide. It was at a point that had Hermione not known full well just how resistant Harry was to mind altering Magics, she might’ve suspected he was being controlled somehow. But no, it seemed the only undue influence on her friend was that of his dick.

All in all, as the year 2017 dawned, and Hermione was confronted by the reality that her baby girl would very soon be starting at Hogwarts. Still, she found herself hopeful. In spite of everything, she knew that the world they lived in was one in which good would always prevail, and it was her duty to keep it that way. So long as she had people like Harry standing on the same side as her, she didn’t doubt that she would succeed.

* * *

**May, 2017**

“Miss Granger... Miss Granger! HERMIONE!” 

The recently anointed deputy head of the DMLE jolted awake from where she had lain slumped at her desk with a squeak, drawing her wand immediately before taking in the sight of Minerva McGonagall’s head in her fireplace. Not entirely sure that this wasn’t a dream, Hermione rubbed her eyes as she yawned.

“P-P-Professor?” Hermione watched as relief broke out on the face of the woman who had been like a grandmother to her, a woman who looked older at the moment than Hermione had ever seen her.

“Oh thank Merlin. When you weren’t at your house I feared the worst. Listen to me Miss Granger, I have discovered something that is deeply concerning, something that I will need your help with.” All thoughts of sleep well and truly banished, Hermione rushed over to the fireplace, face set in a look that all who knew her would recognise as her planning look.

“What is it Professor? How can I help?” Minerva’s gaze darted around, as though she thought they were being observed. 

“Not-not here. It’s far too risky, and I don’t know how deep this goes. Listen very carefully to me, Miss Granger. In exactly 12 hours I need you to meet me at Albus’ tomb. It should be safe to talk there. Understand this, this matter is of grave importance.” Hermione was now flooded with concern, mind leaping to just about every possibility she could, turning them over mentally and then either discarding or saving them.

“What matter, Professor? Why can’t you tell me?” McGonagall shook her head, eyes a mixture of fearful and exhausted.

“I’m sorry Hermione, but I dare not say more than I already have. I’ve likely put both of us in grave danger. Meet me, and we might just have a chance.” With that she vanished and the fire returned to normality. Hermione slept no more that night.

The next day, at precisely one in the afternoon, Hermione apparated onto the island that held Albus Dumbledore’s tomb. Waiting, she paced frantically back and forth, desperately trying to figure out what this could be about. After a particularly unsuccessful brainstorm, she realised that she’d been waiting for over an hour. Waiting over an hour for a woman who had never been late in her life.

Filled with a whole new dread, Hermione hastily made her way up to Hogwarts. Just as she reached the gates, she found Hagrid — his black beard beginning to be streaked with grey — sitting and sobbing into his hankie. At that sight, Hermione felt her fear solidify into a rock and plummet to her core, but still she couldn’t quite make herself believe it.

“H-Hagrid?” The half-giant’s gaze snapped up, eyes widening as he took in the woman before him.

“Ermione? Wha’re you doin’ ere?” Hermione approached slowly, hand clutching her wand for some reason that she couldn’t quite puzzle out.

“Why’re you crying Hagrid?” Her voice was soft as snow, and about ten times as cold. Hagrid flinched, tears beginning to flow freely yet again.

“It’s Pr-prerfesser Mc-Mc-McGonagall. She- she d-died last n-night!” He cut himself off with a bestial howl that wracked his entire body, dislodging the rock he was still sat on. Hermione, meanwhile, felt her very soul freeze. Operating entirely on autopilot, she came right up to the half-giant.

“How did she die Hagrid?” Subtly she sent a cheering charm at the large man, though all she succeeded in doing was lessening the magnitude of his tears. 

“In ‘er sleep. Madam Pomfrey checked ‘er over, said ‘er ‘eart just gave out in tha’ night. Nothin anybody could’ve done. ‘Arry’s still in a right state though. Bin runnin’ ‘imself ragged keepin’ i’ all together.” Hermione’s thoughts never stopped whirling, but one was absolutely prevalent. She did not, for even one second, believe that Minerva McGonagall had simply died of heart failure. The Headmistress had known something, something that merited her death. And even if it killed her too, Hermione was going to find out what.

Leaving a still sobbing Hagrid with assurances that she’d be back to check on him, she shot off up to the castle. Her first port of call was the Headmistress’s office, which she scoured top to bottom in the search for some sort of clue. Unfortunately, she turned up nothing. Even the coded papers she’d left with McGonagall revealed nothing. 

Her next attempt was the portraits of the old headmasters, but despite her most frantic cries, every single one of them remained asleep, unanimous in their silence. It was amidst her 7th and most desperate plea when she heard the stone gargoyle move aside, and a rich, deep voice she knew almost as well as her own rang out.

“I’m afraid they won’t wake. Believe me, that was the first thing I tried. But when the Headmistress dies without a clear successor, they go dormant until such a time as the new head is appointed.”

Harry had barely finished speaking before Hermione slammed into him, the fear and anguish she’d been so furiously repressing boiling over as she sobbed into the arms of her friend. 

Eventually, after Merlin knows how long, she was able to compose herself, as Harry steered her into a chair and placed a mug of tea in her hand. Eager for the respite she drank almost the entire thing in moments, and then... she told Harry  _ everything _ . From McGonagall in the fire to her desperate search of the office, she spoke to her friend with a candour that surprised even her.

At the end of her tirade, Harry leant back, eyes narrowed, rubbing his short beard — a new addition, Hermione noted semi-hysterically — before he began to theorise.

“Well, I’d say that we have certain grounds to consider this a murder then. The question is who on earth could access the Headmistress’s quarters without waking her up, not to mention kill her in such a manner as to arouse literally no suspicion?” Hermione looked up, and with a weak smile, she began to bounce ideas off of him — easily falling back into the patterns of their old days in the wilderness.

“It has to have been someone who knew the castle intimately, someone able to bypass the wards... You’re certain there was no trace of dark magic on her?” Harry shook his head. 

“I examined her myself. So did Poppy, Filius and Daphne.” Harry thankfully ignored Hermione’s flinch when he mentioned his wife. “Not one of us turned up anything. If I weren’t a paranoid bastard, I would’ve genuinely believed that it was just a heart attack.”

Hermione furrowed her brow, leaning forward and staring at her mug as though it contained the exact answers she sought. 

“It has to be some sort of obscure magic. Something old most likely, designed to be untraceable.” Harry nodded slowly, setting down his own tea.

“Hermione, have you considered that this might make you a target.” The brunette froze at that, realisation filling her. Clearly noting that she had not, Harry sighed.

“I thought not. Besides the killer, I am all but certain that you are the last person who saw Minerva alive. Whatever she knew, the killer needed her dead, needed it quiet. Which now raises the question, do they know about the conversation?” Harry paused, looking deep into her eyes as Hermione just let the man do his thing, knowing full well that whatever conclusions she reached would likely come later than his did.

“If they do, then you are without a doubt a target. However, I think it’s more likely they didn’t. The efficiency of this attack indicates a strong likelihood this was preplanned to the minutest detail. In that scenario, it’s likely that they would have distanced themselves in the time prior to the attack for an alibi, and therefore her call was likely unobserved. In that case, our top priority, besides obviously catching this bastard, is keeping you out of their focus. To that end, you can’t tell anyone about this.”

At that Hermione’s head snapped up as an affronted sound escaped her. “What?! I can’t just not tell anyone Harry, this is a murder!”

“Hermione!” Harry slammed a hand down, and the brunette jumped back in shock, eyes widening. “Use that brain we’re all so proud of! Whoever this is managed to circumvent the Hogwarts wards at their apex, and clearly knows at least one spell that is definitely not normal magic. Which, if one uses logic, would imply they know more. Whoever this is, they’re a threat. A threat that is apparently within Hogwarts. Flushing them out into the open would be a serious mistake.”

Seeing the fear in her eyes, Harry visibly calmed, searing himself and clasping her hands. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. Listen, it’s almost a certainty I get made headmaster at this point. I will use that to  _ scour  _ the castle. I promise, we’ll find this monster and put them down, but at least for now this has to stay between us. That means you don’t tell Ron, I don’t tell Daphne, no one. Ok?”

Hermione nodded, and the matter seemed to be settled. After a bit more discussion she flooed out from his office, flames engulfing her just before a triumphant smirk spread on the face of the man with eyes the colour of death.

Despite his assurances, Hermione spent the rest of the summer constantly looking over her shoulder, unable to shake the constant feeling of fear. A feeling that was made far, far worse when September arrived.

* * *

**September, 2017**

Hermione blinked back tears furiously as she hugged Rose tight, eliciting embarrassed protestation from her already far too mature daughter. Hermione finally released her after making her promise to write regularly. At long last, the train was taking off with Rose safely ensconced within. Hermione managed to drag Ron away before he picked a fight with Draco Malfoy for the umpteenth time, and they departed. 

Hermione was using every ounce of her admittedly limited occlumency to keep from collapsing under panic attack upon panic attack at the thought of her baby being in the exact  same place as the person who murdered Minerva less than a year ago. In fact, the only reason she was even slightly willing to see her daughter go on that train was the knowledge that Harry was at this point practically all-knowing within the castle. 

What’s more — as she’d found out from Bill and Fleur, veterans of the drop off by now — Harry apparently rode the train with the students each year, inviting several to his carriage to ostensibly learn about their worries, interests and other matters. While the concept did bring to mind Horace Slughorn in a mildly worrying way, Hermione knew that Harry would never exploit his position in such a way. And if it meant that Rose was under his direct protection, all the better.

* * *

**June, 2018**

Stepping out of the floo into her home, her daughter’s hand clutched tightly, Hermione reflected deeply on the chaos that had been the last year. Rose had been entirely uninvolved — for which Hermione thanked any higher power that she could possibly think of — but that didn’t lessen the stress brought on. For one thing, after an apparently climactic duel that destroyed much of his office, Harry had turned in Minerva’s killer.

A 20 year old witch named Delphini had been caught slipping into his quarters, and after being subdued had revealed herself as the daughter of Lord Voldemort! Hermione had honestly thrown up her morning coffee at the thought of that  _ thing  _ procreating, but the point was moot. Delphini had confessed immediately, seeming wildly unhinged, and that appeared to be that. 

In the court of the Wizengamot, Delphini confessed to more than two dozen murders, several of which had been dismissed as accidents prior. According to her, all of this killing had been done with the end goal of some sort of hellish ritual meant to resurrect Lord Voldemort, with Harry’s murder being the final piece. 

That said, while her knowledge of obscure magic explained her feats, including Minerva’s death, Hermione was not alone in being very sceptical as to the existence of any such ritual. More likely, this was a poor, misguided youth driven to insanity, killing in the name of a goal that never existed. Honestly, Hermione had felt sorry for her. This sentiment wasn’t echoed by many, but it was echoed by enough of those who mattered.

Delphini was spared Azkaban, instead being made a ward of Harry Potter, who would have master control of magic dampening cuffs placed on her, and who would be responsible for “rehabilitating” her. Hermione doubted how likely this was to succeed — and was absolutely not a fan of putting Lord Voldemort’s daughter in a house with Daphne Greengrass — but if there was anyone who could pull someone like her back from the darkness, she couldn’t think of a candidate better suited than Harry. In any case, Minerva was laid to rest now. The culprit had been caught and would never hurt anyone ever again. Hermione was ready to put this whole thing behind her.

Back at home, life seemed to finally be achieving some semblance of normality. Rose could not have been more effusive in her love of Hogwarts, just barely stopping shy of giving in depth breakdowns of each and every lesson she sat. 

To absolutely no surprise on the part of either Ron or Hermione, Harry was, by far, Rose’s favourite teacher. The 12 year old could barely stop herself from describing the magic he taught them in DADA, as well as apparently doing voluntary Lessons on Wizarding Politics, and running a duelling club on top of being headmaster. Hermione had snorted at that. Of course Harry would be keeping himself busy, he quite literally didn’t know how to sit still. 

All in all, if her daughter’s main impression of her first year was an amazing sense of hero worship for her headmaster, then Hermione figured that the next six years couldn’t be too bad.

* * *

**November, 2020**

A truly gargantuan crowd filled the atrium of the Ministry as Harry James Potter was sworn in as the youngest Chief Warlock in just shy of a millennium. Hermione truly, desperately wanted to be proud of her friend. More than anything else she wished that she was up there with him, sharing this victory. 

But this wasn’t a victory. At least, not for her — not for what she stood for. That mattered little of course. Despite heading the DMLE, Hermione was well aware that her political opinions were the minority, by a rather impressive degree.

Since capturing Delphini Riddle — who now stood just behind Harry, the perfect picture of demure repentance — Harry had gone from strength to  _ strength _ . He had capitalised on the wealth of support just waiting to be claimed, and he pushed forwards gaining more and more power. At this point, he directly controlled over half of the Wizengamot, with the ability to influence even more. 

Only the most serious alterations to Magical Britain’s constitution required enough votes that Harry couldn’t overturn them easily, but otherwise the law was his to do with as he pleased. And that was what he had done. The ministry, Hogwarts, even society itself was changing according to his whim… and the public loved him for it.

Most vocal of all were the youth of Wizarding Britain, those who had left Hogwarts in the last 15 years. Having served under his headmastership, they practically hung on his every word, agreed with his every proposition, and vocally shot down anyone who rose up in disagreement. Worst of all, there were more each year. Of the however many graduates Hogwarts saw per year, well over three quarters signed up to Harry’s various youth programs by the end of the summer. 

Wizarding Britain danced to his tune, and all Hermione could do was thank Merlin that he still seemed to want the best. His methods were concerning, no doubt, but considering the things she’d seen Greengrass attempt to push through, Hermione knew that this was undoubtedly for the better. That didn’t mean it was ideal.

The worst part though, the part that kept her up at night, was what it had done to her family. Rose was a fourth year, Hugo a second. Where Hugo had inherited his fathers lack of interest in politics, happy to enjoy his schooling; Rose had inherited her father’s stubbornness, Hermione’s own intelligence, a fiery streak that was all her own, and a powerful desire to be involved in politics. 

All of this would’ve been entirely fine, were it not for the fact that Rose was a steadfast devotee of the beliefs of Harry James Potter. In fact, even as Hermione stood, concern etched into her brow as Harry accepted his new title, Rose stood beside her, cheering louder than just about anyone else. With the ascent of Rose’s faith in Harry had come the deterioration of her relationship with Hermione, and she had no idea at all how to fix it.

No, that wasn’t right. She knew exactly what she needed to do. She just prayed it wouldn’t get to that point.

* * *

**July, 2024**

Cloaked in quite literally every single concealing and silencing spell she could find in her admittedly vast library of magic, Hermione crept through the corridors of Potter Manor, gaze fixated on a single destination. Harry — sorry, the Supreme Defender — was in France at the moment. Ostensibly to negotiate trade with Directeur Delacour, though if he didn’t come back with oaths of fealty from the entire French government then Hermione would eat Devil’s snare. This was her best, her only chance to get answers she so desperately needed.

Having to pause every five steps to check for wards was exhausting, but at long last she made it into the master bedroom. Daphne Greengrass (she would never be Potter to Hermione) was asleep in the giant bed, blonde hair fanning out around her in a halo, bare chest rising and falling slowly. 

With speed that wouldn’t look out of place coming from a snail, Hermione inched over to the bed, before placing her wand under the tip of the sleeping woman’s chin. Immediately Daphne stiffened, before going still as her eyes opened slowly. She spoke, her eyes remaining fixed on the ceiling as a voice that expressed nought but boredom, save the slightest tremor floated into the air.

“Considering you managed to get in here, I assume you know who my husband is. And following that, you have some inkling of what he’ll do to you if you cause me any harm whatsoever.” Pushing the wand rip further into the woman’s chin, Hermione allowed a certain degree of vindictiveness enter her voice.

“How very ironic. You see, I’m much more interested in what  _ you  _ did to your husband.” Speaking cancelled the many charms on her person, and Daphne’s eyes snapped down to meet hers, widening the merest fraction, which Hermione assumed she was having the normal person’s equivalent of a mental breakdown.

“Granger? What in Merlin’s name do you think you’re—” she was cut off as a small spark struck her, and she wisely shut her mouth as Hermione’s wand glowed a nasty red. 

“I’m not asking again, Greengrass. You’ve played your game for much too long. Now answer me. What did you do to Harry? How did you turn him into this?” For a few seconds Hermione received nothing but silence, and she was about to arrow out a stinging hex, when an odd noise began to reach her. Before she even realised what was going on, Daphne Greengrass was tossing her head back and practically howling with laughter, tears of mirth flowing down her cheeks as she shook helplessly.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed furiously, and she jabbed her wand at the blonde, but it did nothing to halt the entirely out of character hysterics. “What the hell’s so funny?!”

“YOU!” Greengrass sat up, barely paying attention to either her own nudity or the other woman’s wand still levelled on her. “Morgana’s tits, you honestly believe it too, don’t you?” She wiped a tear as slight spasms of laughter continued, though with less regularity. “Harry was right. Smart as a whip, but once you develop a bias or an idea about someone, it’s impossible for you to think around it, isn’t it?” 

Hermione was very much done at this point. She hit Daphne in the cheek with a stinging hex, causing the blonde to cry out angrily, Hermione looked her dead in the eye and attempted to convey the amount of hatred she was holding in right now.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Daphne giggled again, though now there was a distinct lack of mirth in her voice. 

“You dumb bint. More than 20 years since he came back, and you never guessed, never even suspected? Come on, even I could tell he was different, and I never spoke to the bastard! You must’ve seen something, no one’s that delusional.” As Daphne spoke, her every word hit a part of Hermione that she had never even realised existed and she felt something begin to give inside her mind. Oblivious to this, the ex-Slytherin was rambling now, and she wasn’t planning on stopping.

“Seriously, the man turns Hogwarts into his own damn grooming pool for eager little drones, straight up steals the Wizengamot’s power, and does everything short of naming himself emperor of Britain, and you never, for a moment considered that he might be just the teensiest bit not the same?”

Hermione’s wand lashed out, a lash of fire striking Daphne's collar, causing her to squeal. “Don’t fucking lie to me! You manipulated Harry, I saw it! He was better! He was normal and you changed him!” 

Once again Daphne was consumed by laughter, though it died down much faster this time around when Hermione shot her a glare that would melt steel. 

“Ok, ok. I admit it freely, I entered my relationship with Harry hoping to point him a certain direction. In fact I was certain I’d succeed. Unlike  _ you  _ apparently, I saw that he was different. I saw that he was keeping you at arms length. I saw that he and dear  _ Ginevra _ had split, and so I took the opportunity. What Slytherin wouldn’t? He was powerful, handsome, and appeared to be malleable. But that’s where I went wrong.” 

She paused an expression of defeat flirting across her face. Hermione missed this however, her mind essentially collapsing under the bombshell she could feel building in her psyche.

“At first, seemed like it was going perfectly. He couldn’t get enough of me. I mean,” she gestured to her still nude form, “who wouldn’t right? He wasn’t half bad either, and little by little I was winning him over to my point of view. Or so. I. Thought. I wasn’t playing him. He knew my game from the very beginning.” 

She laughed, bitterness dripping from every syllable she spoke.

“It’s almost fucking hilarious now. There I was, the genius manipulator, getting utterly toyed with. Before I knew it, I was bound to him — trapped by bonds stronger than any words. He controlled, manipulated and all but enslaved me, and I ended up falling in love with him anyway.” 

The sneer that came to her face now was truly impressive, the sort that would’ve made Snape himself quail. “So,  _ Miss Granger, _ I’m afraid you’ve got it all mixed up. I’m no more Harry’s controller than you are his friend. We’re all his playthings, I just noticed the strings a long time ago. Don’t worry though, I’ll spare you the indignity of having to live with just how badly you fucked up.”

With that she spun, discreetly summoned wand rising to fire off all manner of curses at Hermione. She never got the chance to cast them. 

A blasting hex blew out the giant window in the eastern wall, Daphne ducking as glass flew everywhere. Hermione leapt through the hole, legging it as fast as she could into the night. Only when she finally passed the ward lines, did she gather herself enough to apparate away, then do so another 14 times before grabbing a hidden portkey to her safe house, wherein she hunkered down and sobbed until it felt as though she had no water left in her body.

* * *

**Potter Manor, the next Morning**

Harry fixed the window with but a wave of his hand, magic pouring off of him in literal waves. Throughout the room, three others stood, all in markedly different positions.

Blaise Zabini stood stock still, eyes fixed on Harry’s back with an assessing gaze. He had his wand in hand, the good little soldier that he was. Just within the door, Delphini Riddle stood as well, though her hands were clasped and her head was bent submissively in the presence of the man she viewed as both father and deity. Finally, Daphne lay whimpering against the bed, blonde hair in disarray. As Harry turned over the memories he had ripped from his wife in his mind, he felt a cold smile spread on his place.

“How very… amusing.” Whirling, he locked eyes with Blaise who returned his gaze evenly. Harry liked that about him, almost no one else was willing to lock eyes with him any more. “Have a squad search for Granger. They won’t find her, but better to use them anyway. This can yet play to our advantage. More importantly, send word to Rose, I want her here now. It’s time she commits fully to a side.” Recognising the unspoken dismissal, Blaise left immediately with a curt nod, while Harry rounded on Daphne.

Instinctively she whimpered, retreating into herself. “Harry… please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I-”

“Shhhhhhhh, shhhhh.” Harry brushed Daphne’s hair out of her eyes and stroked her cheek, taking great amusement in how such a simple gesture brought on a look of such adoration. “It’s alright darling. You made a mistake, you’ve been punished. Now you get to make amends.” 

Daphne nodded frantically, and Harry marvelled internally at just how lucky he’d gotten with this one. Ruthless from birth, highly intelligent, prepackaged with political connections galore, and utterly devoted to him without him even needing to make edits to her mind. Admittedly she was an egotist, and as today proved she didn’t know how to shut her mouth, but she was a prize, one that he very much enjoyed owning.

Standing, he allowed his wife and “daughter” to leave, before taking in the sunrise. So. Hermione knew. A shame, he supposed. She was always the most fun to toy with, but the deception couldn’t have lasted much longer anyway. No, this was simply how things played out. It didn’t matter, nothing anyone did would matter. Even alone, he could comfortably say that if he was smart he could conquer Wizarding Britain in a matter of weeks. 

But he wasn’t alone. He had learned from the mistakes of his youth, and now he knew the benefit of allies. Well, allies was the wrong word. Followers? Hmmm, fitting but not quite. Servants? No, played out. Ah, that’s it. Subjects. He chuckled lowly, letting the sound fill the room. Wizarding Britain was his. Had been for a while. The vast majority of Europe also served him, knowingly or not. In time, he would spread his influence to every speck of land on the globe.

He was half tempted to let Hermione expose him, after all, it would be nice to have an actual challenge during his little coup.

* * *

**Safehouse Godric, a fortnight later**

Two weeks. That’s how long Hermione remained, utterly isolated from the outside world within her safe house. In that time, she had put every fibre of her brain towards one purpose. Uncovering absolutely every action Harry had taken since returning to Britain. Even as she did this, a quiet but ever growing voice in her head pointed out the fact that Harry had all but won already, and there was precious little she could do. 

She murdered that voice, with extreme prejudice. Finally, when she was done, she sent out a message. A message to the only people she felt she could truly trust. The only people she was certain Harry hadn’t gotten to. And now they sat before her, the Order of the Phoenix reborn. Belatedly, Hermione realised the position she had taken in this was that of Dumbledore, and desperately fought down the wave of inadequacy  _ that  _ brought on.

They were few, much to few, but they were a start. Before she launched into her explanation, she was briefly interrupted.

“‘Mione, there’s something you need to know...” Ron shared a glance with Neville before soldiering on, but even as he spoke, Hermione knew what he was going to say. Knew exactly what Harry had taken from her.

“Rosie… she left in the night around the same time you vanished. Then a week ago, she…” he trailed off, looking desperately at Neville with a defeated expression. Thankfully, the sandy haired man took mercy.

“She was anointed into Harry’s honour guard three days ago. It was a very public event.” The point being made was clear. Harry had her daughter, the baby girl who had been Hermione’s entire world for years now. It nearly broke her. It came so very, very close. But not quite.

“Very well then.” Ron’s head snapped up at the utterly frozen tone of his wife’s voice. “We need to act fast.” She turned, waving a hand and bringing up an image of Harry from when he’d first returned, when she’d been so convinced he was whole again.

“Harry Potter has betrayed every ideal he once stood for. In the last two decades, he has lied, manipulated, murdered, cheated, and committed all other manner of crimes with the express goal of cementing absolute power for himself.” 

She paused, as grief flooded her briefly, causing her knees to buckle. She would be forever grateful to Neville for catching her. Regaining her strength, she steeled herself once more.

“We have no way of knowing why Harry is doing this. It is possible some remnants of Lord Voldemort remains within him, equally it is possible that the war just broke him. It could be something he encountered while he was away, it could be this was always a part of him — waiting for its moment. The truth is, we cannot know and it is a moot point. The Harry we knew is dead. He has become a monster the likes of which we have seen only rarely before, and he must be destroyed.”

Looking around, Hermione was more relieved than she could possibly say that the only expressions around the table were those of grim determination. As planned, she took a seat, and Neville took over.

“I’ve been working with Harry at Hogwarts. I wish I could say I saw the signs, but like everyone else I either missed them or chose not to see. I’ll regret that until the day I die. However, what this means is that Harry has proven he’s a master of deception. More importantly, vast swathes of Britain believe in him. I don’t know if you’ve been around certain areas, but there are witches and wizards who genuinely believe he’s a god.”

He paused, looking far older than he should. “Outside of the people in this room, I’m afraid we just can’t trust anyone. Much as it kills me to admit it, we just don’t know who would be with us, and who would be against us.” This too was met with nods, and the meeting commenced. 

Eventually it was agreed that Britain was all but a lost cause. Therefore the majority of the members would go to other countries believed to still be free from Harry’s corruption, and beg for aid. The problem there was convincing them of Harry’s guilt. Hermione’s theories wouldn’t be sufficient evidence against a widely respected leader who was beloved if stern in his actions. This was the one issue that remained unresolved when the meeting adjourned. 

That was, of course, bar one member. As he surveyed his fellows — Hermione breaking down in Ron’s arms, Neville agonising over what to tell his wife, Luna weeping openly at the thought of one her most beloved friends' betrayal — this man felt his resolve settle. He had a role, he had a purpose, he would see it through.

  
  


Harry first realised something was up when he smelt  _ it _ . It was a truly unique smell, and in his experience, unique was bad. So, he threw up a shield mere moments before bombs went off all over his office, spraying the entire surface with an acid that actually began to eat through his shield. Dropping the spell, he whirled the elder wand in an arc — vanishing the corrosive liquid before it reached him.

His respite was short lived, however, as a boom of raw sound that reminded him eerily of the Triwizard egg amped up a hundredfold tore through the room. For the first time in a  _ very  _ long time, Harry cried out in pain, clutching his ears and looking in in shock as his hands came away bloody. They would heal, but he honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d  _ bled.  _ It was an odd sensation.

He didn’t like it.

With a roar, black fire burst around the room, scorching away the various rune clusters and items dotted around, and just barely missing the cloaked figure, who executed a rather clumsy roll before popping up with a powerful piercing hex.

Well. Relatively powerful. Harry merely batted it aside, before launching off a barrage of curses that utterly perforated the man’s shields, and tore him apart a thousand different ways. The man grabbed for his belt, only for it to fly into the outstretched hand of the ruler of Britain, who chuckled. 

“No, I think two surprises is as many as you get George, don’t you agree?” Aware that the gig was up, the obscuring charm on George’s face slid away, revealing a mass of blisters and blood to match the rest of his body. The last Weasley twin chuckled, though it soon turned into a coughing fit, even more blood spattering Harry’s floor. At length, he managed to pull himself together, looking up with a misshapen grin that echoed Mad-Eye Moody’s in the most odd way.

“Comedy comes in threes ickle Harrikins.” Harry had a fraction of a second to react as the belt exploded in his hand, releasing all manner of chaos. 

George kept his one working eye fixed on the cloud of rainbow coloured smoke, hoping against hope that his last ditch attempt had worked. Alas, it was not to be.

The smoke cleared to reveal an utterly apoplectic Harry Potter. His left arm was a stump after the elbow, blisters and bird feathers sprouted in equal measure from his shoulder, and the skin on the left side of his face had been peeled clean off. Not that that was remotely the worst part. In the grip of the pure agony released by the owner of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes, Harry had let slip the numerous glamours used to simulate aging.

The part of him not marred by Georges handiwork looked still 20, at the very oldest, but his skin was a sick, waxy white, and pulled taut against his skull as though some force from within him was attempting to draw it in. His hair, while still black had had lost its lustre, falling limply in clumps. The only part even remotely resembling the man he had once been was his eyes. Still green, they now glowed with their own unnatural light, looking to all the world as though he’d trapped two killing curses in orbs.

All in all it was a truly, utterly appalling sight, and George couldn’t help but laugh.

“Well, would you look at that. Guess we both got lovely glow ups.” Harry, or whatever this creature wearing his face called itself, literally growled. His magic pulsed around him, a green blaze that blanketed George’s mind in dread. Still, he was a Gryffindor, Merlin damn it, and he wasn’t seeing Freddie without a suitably cool exit.

“I’m impressed Ickle Harry. That ickle firstie I met all those years ago would never have pulled all this off.” While still blazing, Harry’s aura seemed to regain control of itself, folding into a more manageable configuration. When he spoke, his voice was a far cry from the cultured tones of his pretensions. Now his voice had all the charm of nails on a chalkboard.

“And what, dear Master Weasley, do you mean by all this?” George chuckled, before hacking up what he could only assume was a piece of lung. 

“Oh you know… committing Merlin knows how many murders, framing Delphini Riddle whom, by the way, I assume is an agent of yours?” His only response was a tilt of the monsters mangled face, but George figured that would do. “Let us not forget what essentially amounts to the brainwashing of thousands, All of course with the grand aim of conquering Wizarding Britain, and bringing it to heel under your magnificent bootheels.”

Harry truly couldn’t help it. He threw back his head and began to guffaw. George flinched at the sickening sound, but held firm for just a bit longer. As his laughter died down, Harry fixed George with a piercing look, one half of his face a grinning skull, the other a grinning skull with some skin stretched over it.

“Well, can’t really hurt can it? Right on all counts but one Mr Weasley, that’ll be five points to Gryffindor! So very very close. It's a damn shame you stuck with nobility, Merlin knows you’d be more useful than half my Lieutenants. No, you missed one teensy tiny little detail.”

Wanting to truly savour this next moment, he knelt, bringing himself eye level with the redhead, one ruined face gazing at another.

“I’m not trying to conquer Britain. I already did that. No, I was planning something a bit more… global.”

Harry relished in the look of shock and horror on George’s face, only to be stumped as it morphed into a triumphant grin.

“Aaaaaaand, scene.” suddenly three orbs shimmered into existence, hovering above Harry and George, apparently having entered from the doorway. Caught by surprise, Harry stumbled back, killing curse eyes sweeping between the orbs and the downed man.

“What did you do?”

George laughed, ignoring the blood exiting his mouth as he forced himself to his feet, ignoring every part of his body screaming at him to just lay down and die.

“Like ‘em? Freddie’s idea, we only managed to make a few prototypes before he died, but boy are they useful. That one’s named Freddie 3 by the way.” He jerked a thumb at the centre of the orbs, which did a little spin. Meanwhile understanding was dawning in Harry’s eyes, combating a bloodcurdling fury that made George want to curl up in a ball and hide. He ignored that too.

“See, I always thought the buggers were slightly unethical to sell, all sorts of abuses you could pull off. That said, looks like Freddie came through for me one last time.” he stopped, before breaking into utterly hysterical laughter, his body literally falling apart. 

“Guess I was wrong! Looks like comedy comes in fours! Don’t worry though, your worship. I’m sure you can spin this somehow. I hear terrifying skull people are all the rage these days.” 

He was hunched over now, hands literally holding in some of his organs as harry, face stone, extended a hand. The elder wand whirled into his palm, before he levelled it directly at the still guffawing ginger. George was shaking, his eyesight was fading, and he was pretty sure the fact that it didn’t hurt anymore  _ could not _ be good, but he still laughed. He chuckled and chortled, and when the incantation finally came, he just beamed.

“Sweet fuck, it hurts to laugh.” 

Green light flooded the room, and George Weasley laughed no more.

Standing stock still, Harry radiated a fury the likes of which he hadn’t felt in decades. With vicious slashes of his wand, Fred 3 and the other two devices were reduced to scrap metal, but still he raged. Two hours later he exited the smoking wreckage of Potter Manor, his wounds healed and glamours in place. Not that they held any use now besides psychological. 

A grim smirk graced his features as he strode forwards. How deeply ironic that it would be George Weasley that so damaged his goals. He’d have to have a statue made of the prankster once his reign was set. Nevertheless, nothing had changed but the means by which he needed to operate. Subversion was off the table, so now war would be required.

* * *

**February, 2026**

Almost two years. That was how long the world had been at war. In that time, Hermione had seen truly astonishing feats of magic, and equally horrific ones. In the aftermath of ‘The Great Unmasking’, as those who fought for freedom called George’s noble sacrifice, or ‘The Trickster’s Deception’, as those who had been won over by Harry did, the world had shifted irrevocably. 

Harry had wasted absolutely no time in naming himself the Supreme Emperor of Wizarding Europe, immediately dissolving the Ministry in favour of a more…  _ linear _ chain of command. His word was quite literally law, and overnight Magical Britain was transformed. Hermione and Ron had escaped the country by the very skin of their teeth. Ron’s eye patch still acted as evidence of just how close the call had been. 

He hadn't been the same after that night. Admittedly, any man who walked away unchanged from taking a piercing hex to the face from his own daughter was not someone Hermione wanted to associate herself with. Hermione still couldn’t fight the urge to tear up whenever her daughter was mentioned. Potter’s left hand, one of the Dark Lord’s Furies, The Dark Weasley. Each nickname cut her like a knife, and yet somehow Ron was worse off.

He was almost unrecognisable, his hair cut close to his scalp, the bulk he’d gained throughout fatherhood gone in place of muscle and sinew. Ronald Weasley was one of the top front line combatants of the British Remnant, hell the entire alliance. Not that that was saying much numbers wise anymore.

The moment war had been a certainty, Harry had sent a code to his agents all across the world. The entirety of Europe — with the exception of the Magical Roman Empire — declared for him immediately, as did Russia, Japan, Mongolia, and large chunks of the Asian Continent.

Even major players like the US and Canada were affected, be it by suicide attacks or leadership assassinations, the world was thrown into utter disarray, disarray that Harry capitalised on. His armies, mingling with Dementors, Inferi, Werewolves and Vampires tore into foreign forces. At first, he was all but unopposed. By the end of the first year, all but the most minute patches of the Eurasian continent were his, swiftly followed by gains in Northern Africa. Though, he was halted partway across the Sahara by a force of Egyptian Wizards, Cursebreakers led by Bill Weasley, and a full coven of Veela under the command of Apolline Delacour’s mother, Fleur’s Grandmother.

This force made excellent headway, stalling a large chunk of Harry’s forces and allowing the North American armies much needed time to recover, at which point they launched a two pronged assault, from both the west and east, the Eastern Force being supplemented by the Australians. 

For a few glorious months, it honestly seemed as though the allied forces were making headway. Harry was struggling with a war on four fronts, as well as insurrections from within his territories. Unfortunately, he had the perfect weapon to deal with one of the fronts.

Victoire Weasley, being the girlfriend of Harry’s godson and heir apparent, had remained in Britain, swearing fealty to the emperor. This on its own was a tragedy, but not fatal. No, what was fatal, was when Gabrielle Delacour, going against her mother’s express wishes, infiltrated England to free her niece. The exact events that transpired are hazy, but the end result was a captured Gabby, and a Harry who now possessed precisely the ingredients needed for a devastating ritual, one provided to him by a coven loyal to him, which had a specific hatred of the Delacours.

Hermione hadn’t been there on what would come to be known as the Night of Bloody Feathers, but the few survivors who were, particularly Dean Thomas, told the tale more than enough. At midnight, eighth August, 2025, something came over the Veela. The beautiful, capricious beings had been mingling with the men, ‘playfully’ throwing around their allure, when a horrible wind like presence blew through the encampment. In mere moments, the Veela had turned on those they had been fighting alongside for months. Transformed Veela rent men apart with their claws, and burnt them to ash with their fire, while some remained human, entrancing their former allies into slaughtering each other. 

It was amongst this chaos that Dean saw Bill clutching his wife. As a quarter Veela, Fleur had felt the magic settle on her, twisting her mind against its true desires, but she had fought. As even her mother was turned, eviscerating Gress — one of the American leaders — Fleur fought. She clung to her husband and she battled tooth and nail for her soul while Bill whispered encouragement, bathing her in the magic she always found so comforting.

Apparently, it almost seemed as though she had done it. Even though he was fighting for his life feet away, Dean could recall how Fleur’s eyes softened, gazing into Bill’s. He remembered the way her eyes had gone dark and the way she had ripped out her husband's spine equally vividly.

By the time the sun rose, the North African army was all but wiped out, barely 5% of its members still living. And when Harry walked into the encampment, the Veela knelt, Fleur front and centre, her skin still coated in Bill’s blood.

However, utterly horrifying though the event was, it did not break the Alliance. The Southern half of the African continent remained firm, throwing back all attempts to defeat them. The Australian and American Force made gains in the land that used to be China, and the European battlegrounds were fierce as anything. 

For half a year it was a stalemate. For half a year Harry remained ensconced in his British capital, the one country that absolutely no Alliance member could infiltrate, let alone attack. They should have known something was coming.  _ She  _ should have guessed that this wasn’t right. Nevertheless, she failed to foresee it.

The first hit was Neville. Alongside Ron, he was widely regarded as the absolute best of the Alliance. Which was probably why Harry started there. By all accounts, Neville bedded in for the night next to his wife Hannah, and the moment he was asleep she put a knife through his heart.

Just like that, all across the Alliance, influential figures, their family members, hell just random soldiers were revealed as sleeper agents. So much of Alliance leadership was massacred overnight, and the war saw an immediate turnaround. In the space of months the battlelines were forgotten, as country after country fell. Soon, only fragments of Africa still held, along with a swathe of land mixed between the US and Canada. The last country to fall was Australia.

This was undoubtedly intentional of course. After all, large numbers of Muggleborns parents had been relocated to Australia to prevent them becoming hostages. Naturally, that was exactly what they ended up being. Muggleborn flocked to Australia in droves, only to end up captured or killed. The killed were the lucky ones. Harry had made a declaration early on that he deemed the death’s of magicals ‘a tragic waste’. Ergo, about 10 months into the war, captured Alliance soldiers started turning up on the side of the Empire, their minds remoulded into perfect loyalty. It made for a terrifying psychological tactic, but it also provided a shit ton of motivation not to get captured.

Not that that did Hermione any good.

She was one of the few to successfully retrieve her parents from Australia, setting them up in a safehouse near Boston. Perhaps if she hadn’t been so relieved to find them, she might’ve questioned the ease with which they got out, but rational thinking was becoming less and less her forte as time went on.

About a month after saving them, Hermione popped in to visit. Everything was normal, or at least as normal as it could be in such circumstances. Hermione allowed herself to sink into the comfort of home, to the extent she didn’t bother with diagnostic charms on her tea. Truly, the slightest mistakes can doom everything. In a matter of moments Hermione was unconscious, and her father removed a small cloth from behind a curtain. 

The two Granger parents placed the cloth on their drugged daughter’s forehead, and with a whirl of magic the safehouse was empty. The Alliance’s last major tactician was gone, and no one knew until the next afternoon, when Ron dropped in to find an empty house.

* * *

**Granger Home,**

**June 2005**

Emma Granger giggled drunkenly as she finally made it through her daughter’s floo network, spinning around and landing on the sofa in a heap. Dan came through just behind, distinctly more sober but no less cheery.

“Our ‘Mione, Emma, our ‘Mione.” Pure, unadulterated pride was all over the older man’s face, unwavering even as his wife giggled inanely from her spot on the sofa. With a long suffering chuckle, Dan went to get his wife a glass of water. Meanwhile, the man that had stood invisible in the shadows raised a wand and muttered a single word. 

“Imperio.” Immediately, Dan stopped short, all thoughts wiped from his mind besides total and utter bliss. He was floating on a cloud, not a care in the world. From where she was laying, Emma sat up, confusion peering through her drunken state as she saw her husband simply freeze.

“Dan?” Was all she was able to say before the wand turned on her and Emma Granger joined her husband in a void without thought.

Grinning psychotically, Harry Potter stepped out of the shadows, and began programming his new playthings.

* * *

**February, 2026**

The Portkey deposited the Grangers in the centre of the main Imperial Outpost in America, right in front of a very self satisfied Rose Granger-Weasley. Dan Granger looked at his granddaughter without recognition, speaking in a simple monotone.

“We brought the girl.” Rose grinned, nodding slightly and waving her hand for the two to be escorted away, before turning her attention to the unconscious form of her mother. Oh yes, now this was just perfect. A scowl twisted Rose’s features as she forced herself not to start cursing the uppity bitch. For far too long she had had to endure scorn, whispers, suggestions that she was a spy, downright disdain from those who should’ve been her comrades, all because her useless fucking parents refused to see the glory that was the emperor’s vision.

No more. Now, she would be exalted. All thoughts of treachery would be forgotten, and Harry would be proud of her. At the end of the day, that was worth the world to her. Whatever happened to her parents was their own fault. With that thought, she sent off the message and awaited her lords next orders.

* * *

**?, 2026?**

When Hermione awoke, it was to a sight that filled her with pure, undiluted horror. It had been almost 30 years since she had last been in this room — and the decor was unquestionably different — but there wasn’t a moment where she didn’t recognise the former potions classroom of Severus Snape, now apparently remade into the dungeon cell it once was.

Naturally, she knew exactly what this meant. Harry had gotten to her parents somehow, Merlin knows how long ago, and now she was a prisoner at the heart of his Empire. Still technically the Headmaster of Hogwarts, it was widely known that Harry had converted Hogwarts into his main base of operations, from which he coordinated his nigh global dictatorship.

The fact that she was here, rather than one of the hundreds of other prison camps the so called emperor had set up throughout his dominion, boded exceptionally poorly. Hermione genuinely couldn’t stop herself as she broke down, the sobs she’d held back for years now tearing through her. She’d promised herself, sworn that she wouldn’t come back to England except to see it made free, and now she was here — having lost about as badly as humanly possible.

So yes, Hermione could perhaps be forgiven for being distraught. That said, it was only going to get worse.

“Hello, Hermione. Been a while, hasn’t it?” The brunette’s head snapped up and her eyes widened as she took in Harry Potter, Emperor Claimant of the planet, standing before her in all his glory. In spite of his horrifying reputation on the battlefield, Hermione hadn’t seen Harry in person since before she attacked Daphne on that ill-fated assassination attempt. It was disturbing how little he had changed.

Hermione didn’t look old, by any stretch of the imagination, she  _ was _ a witch after all, but Harry looked quite literally frozen in time. His features were regal, from his blazing eyes to his self satisfied smirk. His robes were a dark green, and Hermione realised idly that he had his invisibility cloak draped over his shoulders. All in all, he cut a striking image, and Hermione found that there was only one thing she could bring herself to say.

“You killed McGonagall.” for the barest of moments, actual surprise flitted across her former friends face, before he chuckled slightly.

“You know, considering the extent of my quote unquote ‘atrocities,’ I find it interesting you’d focus on that. But yes, I killed Minnie. The meddling old woman had noticed just what I was teaching my students behind closed doors, and I wasn’t quite ready to go to war at the time. So she had to go. I made it painless at least, old times sake and all that.”

The utter lack of emotion in his tone upset Hermione more than just about anything else he’d done, and while a part of her was screaming that antagonising the psychopathic dark lord was a particularly bad idea, she never had been very good at keeping her mouth shut.

“How could you?! Minerva loved you, she was always kind, she was so proud of you! And you would murder her? Just like that?” Harry seemed to feel nothing but amusement as she ranted, before silencing her with a wave of his hand.

“Just like that. I loved her too, or I did anyway, but for all of Dumbledore’s precious preaching, love was one of the first things to go. I’m not sure if you’re trying to appeal to my better nature here, but if everything I’ve done hasn’t already convinced you of the futility of that then I really don’t know what will.” Then he paused, a look of clearly practiced realisation forming. “Actually, there might be  _ one  _ thing.” He snapped his fingers, and the door to the dungeon opened. Three figures strode in; two standing tall and proud, the other hunched, trembling as she walked.

Hermione had genuinely believed that there was nothing in the world that could still shock her. Naturally, that was exactly what Harry was proving wrong. Stood between the smirking visages of the Carrow Twins — Harry’s chief torturers — her eyes empty, devoid of the fire that had once burned so brightly within them, was the broken form of Ginny Weasley.

Hermione couldn’t speak. This was a trick, this had to be. Ginny was dead, Ginny had to be dead! Nearly fourteen years of believing that her sister in every way that mattered was dead, nearly fourteen years of seeing the Weasley’s — the family that had meant the world for her — rotting away at the core for her death, only to see her alive?

“No. No no no…” Harry chuckled, prompting sadistic little giggles to spring forth from the twins. Ginny, for her part continued to stare off into space, gaze failing to latch onto anything in particular. Harry, still laughing slightly, walked over to the redhead slowly before gripping her by the chin.

“I know what you’re thinking Hermione. ‘It’s a trick, he’s just trying to hurt you!’” He paused to laugh. “But you know, deep down that this is real, don’t you. You don’t want to accept it because accepting it means missing the fact that your friend and sister-in-law was in my  _ tender  _ care for well over a decade. I mean really, you had your kids stay in my house the day she ‘died!’ I will confess to a certain amount of amusement at the thought that while you were all sobbing over dear departed Gin-gin, your kids were playing catch only a few metres above where I had her trapped!”

Harry cut himself off with even more laughter, but Hermione never took her eyes off of Ginny. She was older, obviously. Her skin far too pale, and she had scars on her arms and legs that definitely weren’t there before, but it was Ginny. It made Hermione sick to her core, but she knew. She knew that this was true. Weakly, her voice shaking with repressed sobs, she met the vacant eyes of Ginevra Weasley.

“Ginny… I’m so sorry. P-please, whatever he did to you, I know you can—” Hermione’s voice was lost under the booming sound of Harry’s nigh hysterical laughter.

“Oh Merlin, fuck, oh that’s too good! You actually tried that? Really? Hermione, you really can be so amazingly stupid sometimes. I broke Ginny six months after I kidnapped her. Since then, I’ve had thirteen years to properly...  _ rebuild her _ .” 

Now his jovial expression took on a look of anger, and he gripped Ginny by the hair, not that you would’ve known by her reaction. When he spoke again, his voice dropped such venom Hermione half expected a hiss.

“Ginny was  _ mine. _ She was always meant to be mine. You and your idiot husband allowed her to forget that, to leave me for that stupid fucker. I had to remind her of her proper place, but she understands now, don’t you Gin?”

For the first time, expression appeared on the redheads face, as she looked up at Harry with a small smile, though her eyes remained empty.

“Of course, my Lord. I always belonged to you, and it was awful of me to ever forget that. I’m so grateful that you reminded me.” 

Harry chuckled, patting her cheek as Hermione looked on — somehow even more heartbroken than before. He turned back to look at the brunette, and the triumph in his eyes filled Hermione to the brim with impotent rage.

“Don’t you worry, Hermione. I’ll admit that when I was educating Ginny I was a tad inexperienced. But our methods have come a long way now. Almost a 90% success rate! Now, I’m afraid Ginevra and I will be taking our leave for the time being. I leave you in the tender care of these two lovely ladies. See you around 'Mione!”

Without so  much as a backwards glance, Hermione’s oldest friend sauntered out of the dungeon; the woman he’d once professed to love following at his heel, head still bowed. Hermione couldn’t quite muster up the willpower to cry, even as the Carrow twins advanced on her — sadistic glee mirrored on their faces.

And so began hell.

Hermione lost track of time fairly swiftly, something that was exacerbated by the seemingly random timetable of her tormentors’ appearances. Though when they occurred, they left her a quivering mess for hours.

Their methodology was hardly groundbreaking, but it  _ was  _ very effective. One of the twins — Hermione still had no fucking clue which — would put her under the cruciatus for up to a minute. The moment it dropped, the other would force her way into Hermione’s mind using legilimency before proceeding to run rampant within her psyche. While this was being done, the remaining twin would make sure she never regained her faculties enough to resist with all manner of spells, bone breakers and cutting curses abundant, along with other spells that Hermione didn’t recognise.

Eventually the twin in her mind would withdraw, Hermione would be stunned, and when she woke up she’d be fully healed with only her memories and phantom aches revealing the extent of her torture until their next session.

Hermione tried. She tried so very very hard. But it never worked. She attempted to muster every ounce of willpower she had to hold her occlumency up, but the mental probes pierced it nonetheless. She tried to throw up diversions, obfuscate her memories, hell she even tried a rudimentary form of self-obliviation, but nothing succeeded. Every time, the twin engaging in the mental battle — who she'd just decided to think of as Hestia — would break through and she’d be laid bare.

After her estimation of two weeks, they had fully penetrated her every secret.

After four, they no longer needed the cruciatus. She no longer bothered to do much as try to resist. They used it anyway, but she just couldn’t bring herself to fight it when she knew the result would be the same. At least this way it was over quicker.

Not long after this point, Harry apparently deemed it prudent to place a wizarding wireless in her room. It was thanks to this that Hermione was able to piece together that it had been just under two months since she’d gone to visit her parents. She’d half expected the radio to spout nothing but Harry’s propaganda, but she realised quickly there was no need. The truth was far, far worse.

Hermione had known full well that they were losing. They had been from the moment Neville died — even before that if she was being honest. That said, she’d never quite realised just how badly they were being beaten until she heard it, over and over, in truly excruciating detail. 

Between her torture sessions, the odd visit from Harry where he’d just force his way into her mind before withdrawing and attempting to engage her in conversation, and those awful times when Ginny came in and gave her food without ever so much as speaking to her; Hermione could do literally nothing other than sit in her cell and listen as reports of her former friend’s victories came in, one after the other.

She listened, tears flooding her face as a passionless voice detailed the sack of Ottawa, the conquest of Ilvermorny, the razing of MACUSA. The hits just kept on coming. Worst of all was when someone she knew was mentioned. The report of Luna and Rolf Scamander dying in each other’s arms was bad enough, but hearing that a squadron of Harry’s enslaved Veela — under the command of Fleur — had torn through the South African army, including the murder of Percy at Fleur’s own hands, was even more traumatic. Still, it wasn’t until the final report that Hermione truly gave up.

* * *

**December, 2026**

The wizarding wireless woke her up as it crackled to life, causing the far too tired brunette to jump up, eyes fluttering open and relishing the fleeting seconds of something akin to peace, before reality set in once more. Hermione let out an involuntary whimper as she pulled herself up to her feet, listening intently as the monotone voice of whoever it was that read these reports rang out.

“-03:00 hours GMT, imperialist forces broke through the wards of final rebel encampment in southern Canada. His imperial majesty led the northernmost incursion, backed by High Marshal Granger. After three hours of combat, the last surviving rebels surrendered, and have been remanded to the education camps. Exact losses on each side are unclear, though the empire mourns the tragic loss of Heir Edward. Amongst the rebel dead are the majority of the rebel leadership, including the traitor Ronald Weasley who was killed at the hands of our emperor. The camp itself shall be…”

The words faded from Hermione’s hearing as she slumped to the floor, feeling utterly numb. Screaming throughout her skull was a constant, all consuming loop. Ron is dead, Ron is dead, Ron is dead! She howled in agony, the likes of which even the Carrow twins’ best efforts had never elicited. It was, it was truly over now. She had nothing else, no one else, so what was the point. 

All she could do was hopelessly look back on when it all went wrong, and wonder fruitlessly if there was any way, any tiny action through which she might’ve prevented this. If she’d tried harder to reach Harry, instead of just sending him away, if she’d paid closer attention when Ginny, when McGonagall, when.. Hermione let her thoughts trail off helplessly. What was the point? Harry won, and there was absolutely nothing she could do to change that. The resistance was dead, her last living relatives were his thralls. Fat lot of good being the brightest witch of her age did when she was so utterly… totally… worthless.

* * *

**New Years Day, 2027**

Harry James Potter, emperor and sole ruler of the entire Magical World sat calmly on his throne as he basked in the sight before him. Following his defeat of the final remnants of rebellion in America, Hestia and Flora had come back to him with the report that Hermione had lost any further shred of resistance. He remembered allowing himself a second of regret for his friend, before exalting in yet another victory over that which had once been. Gleeful smile on his face, he had ordered his best interrogators to commence the next stage of their duties. 

To Hermione, it was likely that she saw absolutely no difference in the twins methods. One would place her under the cruciatus, the other would perform brutal and violating attacks of legilimency. The difference now, was in the outcome. Where before the target had been interrogation, then simply breaking her down, now the mental intrusions had a purpose that Hermione, had she still possessed any semblance of willpower, would have balked at and railed against furiously. Of course she possessed none of this, and so as Hestia ripped apart her psyche and pieced it back together again and again, making subtle changes each time, Hermione did nothing but lay there, tears streaming down her face, as her very consciousness was torn to shreds and reforged into a manner befitting the emperor’s design.

It had taken them two weeks.

Now, as Harry gazed down at the shell that had been called Hermione Granger, he marvelled at how far he had come. Just under thirty years ago, he had been broken, pathetic, hollow. If it hadn’t been for his  _ friends _ , and their  _ concern _ , he might well have wasted away into nothingness. But no. No, instead he allowed them to convince him to leave and unknowingly set him down the path to his true destiny. And now, just shy of three decades later, he stood as the highest pinnacle of power and authority on the planet. Even as he stood here in his nostalgia, his agents were being activated; imperius curses and confundus charms in all spheres of muggle influence being set. Which was why he had made sure Hermione would be ready today.

The first day of a new year. The symbolism was apt, he thought. Rebirth, new beginnings, all of that wonderful stuff. And with every tether to his old life dead or gone bar one, there was no better time to seal that fate. So with that thought in mind, he stood and addressed the woman he had once trusted and relied upon above all others.

“Who am I, Hermione?” The once vivacious Muggleborn flinched as she was addressed, ducking her head so as to remain eye level with his feet.

“You are the Emperor of the World, my lord, Master of us all.” Harry grinned at the utter lack of hesitance in her voice. Fear, yes, but her cadence made clear she believed every word she spoke.

“Indeed I am. And what then, are you?” Once again there was no hesitation.

“I am your subject, my lord, to do with as you see fit.”

“That you are. And you would do anything I asked of you?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Would you kill for me?” 

“Yes, my lord”

“Would you lie for me?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Would you forsake everything you ever believed in, turn on wizard and muggle alike, commit unspeakable crimes simply because I asked it of you?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Marvellous. In that case I think my work is done.”

Harry paused for a moment, taking in the empty eyes of his best friend.

“Avada Kedavra.” Green lightning blazed forth from the elder wand, and Hermione Granger’s torment ended at last.

Harry glanced about the room, taking in the expressions of his current audience. With a cruel smirk, he noted the Carrow’s satisfaction at a job well done, Daphne’s poorly hidden euphoria, the standard blank look on Ginny’s face, and the professional disinterest of Blaise and Entwhistle. By far his favourite reaction, however, was the unrestrained glee in the eyes of Rose Granger-Weasley. Internally he was howling with laughter at how totally he had turned the last of the Weasley line against her parents, though of course it made no appearance on his outward features.

Instead he simply nodded at the Carrow’s — who levitated the brunette’s corpse away — before turning back to his plans. It was a new day, a new year, and the emperor had every intention of seizing every opportunity it brought. A short chuckle slipped from his lips as he acknowledged that he might’ve finally given Dumbledore and Voldemort some common ground in their no doubt mutual horror at the image of Harry Potter being known as the sole ruler of the world they had both tried so very, very hard to steer in their desired directions. And rule it he would, in saecula saeculorum.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this story, and might consider leaving a review. as mentioned, this is my first work of fanfiction, so constructive criticism is welcomed. destructive criticism will be remembered and used against others.


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